


The Werewolf's Wife

by pprfaith



Series: Wishlist 2016 [11]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angry Stiles, Buffy Insert, Crossover, Crushes, F/M, Fluff, Happy Ending, I blame the prompt, M/M, Misunderstandings, Not Beta Read, Oh god, Open Relationships, Pining Stiles, Platonic Relationship, Prompt Fic, To end all Buffy Inserts, Wishlist_Fic, crackish, perceived infidelity, what even
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 20:25:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8859823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pprfaith/pseuds/pprfaith
Summary: In which Peter's wife comes to town and Stiles passive-aggressively hates everything.(Wishlist, Day 11)





	

**Author's Note:**

> For Peaceful Fury, who asked for BtVS/TW, Buffy, Peter, Steter, "She's only my wife on paper." I switched up pronouns a little bit, whoopsry. Somehow, the story reached romcom levels of shenanigans and I'd apologize, but with that prompt, it had to happen. I hope this is what you had in mind. I think I went totally sideways with last year's prompt, so I owe you a straight one.

+

“Excuse me, I have to take this,” Peter informs them after a cursory look at the screen of his ringing phone and then he’s out of the room. Judging by the way the wolves tilt their heads like curious dogs, frustrated frowns on their faces, he’s also out of earshot. 

Stiles takes a look around the pack meeting and everyone assembled there. “Who the hell is calling Peter? Everyone he knows is here?”

He directs an expectant look at Derek, freshly back from wherever he fucked off to with Cora this time, and gets a shrug in response. 

“Whatever,” Scott dismisses, tapping the map spread on the coffee table between them. “Pixies. How do we get rid of them?”

With an eye-roll, Stiles slaps a pile of research on top of the map. Then, before anyone can faint at the prospect of having to read everything he _neatly summarized for them_ , he succinctly tells them, “Fire.”

Scott frowns.

“Dude, no. These things are pests. They’re like the supernatural version of rats with wing. Pigeons. Whatever. We kill them. Nothing else is going to work. Do not, I repeat, do not give me the eyes!”

Scott gives him the eyes. 

Allison smacks him. 

Lydia sighs. “He’s right. If we ever want to be rid of them, we need to treat this like an infestation. That means it’s time to exterminate them.”

“Very Doctor Who,” Stiles approves.

The only one who doesn’t look blank is Boyd, so Stiles offers him his fist. Boyd obediently bumps it. They’re scifi buddies, these days. 

The whole conversation might devolve into a moral discussion at this point, but Peter blows that right out of the water by coming back in, looking – 

“Dude, are you looking happy? Like, genuinely happy? Are you even allowed to feel that way?” Stiles blurts before he can stop himself. Not that he’s trying very hard. He and Peter have mostly gotten over the mutual attempted murder thing, what with getting stuck together doing research for their idiotic packmates more often than not, these days, but they still thrive on antagonizing each other. 

It’s a valid form of showing affection, okay?

Peter rolls his eyes, flips Stiles off and then glibly comments, “My wife is coming to town.”

“WHAT!?!!?”

Stiles’ outraged squawk is the loudest by far, but pretty much everyone is yelling the same thing because, because, Peter found someone to marry him? And she’s not dead? And she’s still married to him? And Peter is married? And they never met her? And he never fucking _told Stiles about her_?!

Stiles thought, he thought… but Peter has a wife. Peter fucking Hale has a fucking _wife_ and apparently, Stiles automatically finds the unattainable ones _every single time_ even when he doesn’t even _know_ they’re unattainable. 

Fuck.

He kind of feels like crying, a little. 

“I thought she divorced you,” Derek finally comments over the confusion.

Peter drops back into his seat next to Stiles (too close) and asks glibly, “Why would you think that, Nephew?”

“Because I haven’t seen her around?”

“How could you? You weren’t here,” Peter snaps, and this is about the coma, isn’t it? It always is when they get into that tone of voice. “Unlike her. She visited me as often as she could during my coma.”

“But not since,” Derek points out and Stiles hates how his heart does a hopeful little skip. The only one who hears is, though, is Isaac, who gives him a weird look but keeps his mouth shut. Good puppy.

“First I was insane, then I was dead.”

“You haven’t been dead in almost a year,” Scott throws in. 

“I have also been busy. And so has she. I also don’t see how this is any of your business. My wife is coming to town. I will be too busy to pull your regrettably incapable behinds out of the fire for the foreseeable future. Deal with it. Now, pixies?”

And that, apparently, is the end of that. 

Stiles reiterates his fire plan, fakes a text from his dad and hightails it out of there before they’re anywhere close to finished with the meeting. 

At home, he lines his door and window with mountain ash, cranks up his headphones and turns off his phone. 

Fuck Peter anyway. 

+

They schedule the pixie burning for the next night, and for once Stiles would actually like to be sidelined for being breakable, but noooooo, this time everyone’s all for dragging the human along, so he has to not only face people but also Peter, which sucks. 

Donkey balls. 

He almost bites Erica’s head off twice before they even get to the pixie nest, just about baits Derek into ripping his throat out (oldie, but goodie) and completely ignores Peter, which is not telling _at all._.

Well. The only one who notices more than Stiles’ shitty mood is Peter, so maybe it’s not all that telling after all. Or maybe the rest of the pack is made of idiots. 

Guess which is more likely?

By the time they’ve exterminated the little flying pests, Stiles is about ready to turn his improvised flamethrower on anyone coming within six feet of him. He knows it’s childish, okay? He is fully aware. But he thought… he thought, and he was wrong _again_ and there is only so many times you can get your hopes up, only so many times you can throw yourself out there and be shot down before it just seems… pointless. Bitter. 

On the way back to the cars, everyone makes a point to give him space and on the ride back to the loft, where the left most of their vehicles, he cranks up the stereo beyond even Lydia’s ability to shout over it. 

He almost thinks he’s getting off easy until they pull into the lot behind Derek’s building to find a blonde woman casually sitting on a duffel bag next to the door. 

She waves as they get out of the car and as soon as she sees Peter, she takes off at a dead run, smacking into him hard enough to make him wheeze. They hug. It’s a production, all faces pressed into necks, tight clinging and closed eyes. 

Stiles looks, looks away, looks again. 

Finally, she pulls back enough for him to see her face. She’s about Peter’s age, mid-thirties, and she’s gorgeous. Big, green eyes, a cute pout, killer cheekbones. Skinny and short and dressed in designer clothes from head to toe. She’s… exactly right for someone like Peter. Effortlessly beautiful without being unreal. Classy.

“Hi,” she breathes at Peter and Peter smiles. It’s small and honest and possibly truer than any other expression Stiles has ever seen from the dude. 

“Hello, my dear,” he returns, hands settling on her waist for a moment before he lets go. 

She turns to look around at the assembled pack, waves and then takes a step toward Derek. “Hey, kid,” she greets.

“Buffy,” he nods, hands shoved in his pockets.

Buffy. Okay. 

She’s not thrown by Derek’s less than warm welcome, just grins and points at his chest. “Whoa. Who did you sacrifice to the puberty gods? The last time I saw you, you were all limbs and puppy dog eyes.”

He shrugs. “It’s been almost eight years.”

She deflates. “I tried, Derek. I did. But Laura stonewalled me completely.”

“You’re a hunter,” he counters. Whoa. Really? From the way Peter is still hating on the Allison-Scott thing, Stiles really didn’t expect him to be friendly with any hunters, much less married to one. 

“I would never touch a hair on your head and you know that,” she chides, but she doesn’t sound angry. 

Before she can add anything else, Peer slings an arm around her shoulders and asks, “Why are you here? And you’re early, too.”

“The thing in Prague was easier to deal with than we thought, so I caught an earlier flight out. I couldn’t find your address anywhere, paranoid bastard, so I looked up Derek instead. Figured he could point me your way. And, voila.” 

She makes jazz hands. 

Stiles makes a gagging noise and announces, “I’m going home. I’ve got pixie guts in my hair, thanks to Allison’s shitty aim. Night.”

And he’s gone. 

+

Buffy hangs around. 

She starts coming to pack meetings and running around town where Stiles always, always runs into her. She offers help with various creatures of the night and at one point, she saves Erica’s life from a vampire. 

People around Stiles suddenly start their sentences with, “Buffy said,” and “Buffy is”.

Peter keeps smiling. The pack, once they stop being creeped out by Happy Peter, actually start sort of… accepting him. Like having a wife and obviously adoring her makes him less of a psychopath, or something. 

All because of Buffy. Buffy, Buffy, Buffy.

Stiles’ sarcasm reaches nuclear levels. A few more days of this and he’ll be able to flay people alive with nothing but the power of passive-aggressive snarking. 

+

Lydia starts looking at him funny.

Not that she doesn’t do that a lot, anyway, but, well, funnier. 

“You’re pissed off at something,” she states during lunch one day. 

Stiles gives her dead eyes. 

“Someone,” she corrects, biting into a carrot stick. “And it started about the time Buffy came to town.”

Stiles can’t help it, he grinds his teeth even though he knows Lydia will pounce on it. 

“It’s almost like you’re pissed at her,” his friend observes and he hates her a little for not pretending to be dumb anymore. Back in the day she would have still made this observation, but she would have kept her mouth shut about it, lest someone find out she has a brain. 

“But that can’t be,” she casually goes on, “because you don’t know her. And you haven’t made an effort to get to know her, either. She has great taste in shoes, you know? And she makes Peter more human.”

 _Something_ must happen to his face at that, because she gives a little, viciously satisfied smirk. 

“It’s Peter. But why would Buffy being in town make you mad at Peter?”

Stiles very calmly puts his trash on his tray, grabs the tray and escapes before her big, beautiful brain comes to the inevitable conclusion. 

Five minutes later, his phone starts dancing in his pocket, one text after another. 

_Peter? Are you serious, Stiles? Peter?_

_You do remember that he almost drove me insane and tried to murder us all that one time, don’t you?_

_Peter?_

_Oh, fine. I guess I can see the appeal. In a very abstract way. And it’s your choice. But Peter?_

Ten minutes after no response from him, she sends one more text. _I’ll regret this, but you have my support._

This time he does text back. _He’s married, remember?_

And that’s that. He’ll deal. He always does. He just needs to be a bit cranky first. 

+

He should have known better than to expect Lyds to leave it alone after that. 

+

There’s a hot blonde sitting on his bed.

There’s a hot blonde sitting on his bed and it’s not Erica, because he still hasn’t taken down the mountain ash around the room. 

Stiles scowls. Buffy waves. 

“Has Peter ever told you how we met?” she asks, no hello, no nothing. Like she didn’t just break into his house and his room without so much as a by your leave. Although, technically, if she’d had his leave, it wouldn’t have been breaking in anymore. 

It’s testament of how the puppies have worn him down that Stiles isn’t even really angry about that. Just about the fact that it’s her. She doesn’t get that kind of allowance. He doesn't like her. 

Worse, he does like her, even though he wants to hate her. She’s funny and cool and willing to get dirty. What’s not to like. (Except the fact that, you know, she’s married to the man Stiles has a crush on.)

“Do I look like I care?”

She snickers. “The right answer to that is, ‘No, because I’ve been in a snit ever since you turned up’. Pete’s starting to think you don’t like him anymore.”

“He almost murdered everyone I love. I never liked him to begin with.”

A snort. “Liar.”

“So anyway. Vegas. Conference between my people and a lot of reps of various peaceful, non-human groupings in the US and Canada. Booze. A lot of booze. Woke up married the next day.”

She shrugs, flopping backward onto his bed, arms akimbo. For a chick almost as old as his dad, she’s really not acting her age.

“And since it was true love, you never even considered getting it annulled,” Stiles finishes. “And you lived happily ever after, blah, blah. Can I do my homework now?”

She shudders. “Homework. Eugh. I forget that you kids are still in high school. God.”

“What did you do in high school?” he snaps.

She raises her head to give him a flat look. “Pretty much the same thing you do, but with more dying.” She hums in consideration. “I died a lot. All things considered, you have this thing pretty well in hand. And your parents support you, which is-“

She trails off, looking sad. “Whatever. You’re young, but you’re not a kid, which is the only reason I’m intervening here, okay? We considered getting the marriage annulled, but Talia thought it was fantastic. A tie to the Council? Yay. So we spent a few months hedging over it and by the time Talia stopped trying to use her brother as a political chess piece, we’d become friends.”

“Friends don’t marry each other,” Stiles points out, interested despite himself. He sits at his desk chair. Buffy sits up and scoots over so they’re sitting across from each other, knees almost touching. 

Running a hand through her hair, she sighs. “It was…, look. Peter’s always been Talia’s weapon. Being married to me gave him a bargaining chip with her and something like a life outside of the pack. And me… crap. My first serious boyfriend tried to murder me, as did number four. Number two tried to control me to get over his own self-worth issues and number three almost raped me in my own house.”

She says it straight up, without hesitation, so he guesses it’s an old hurt, but damn. Is anyone in this town not a tightly wound little ball of trauma?

“I’m done. I’m through with romance and relationships and even sex, mostly. I’m almost twenty years past my expiration date and I don’t want someone to sweep me off my feet. Just a friend. Someone who’ll let me snuggle up to them and not judge me. My friends back home, they were trying to fix me, to set me up this this guy, or that and I never figured out how to make them stop. And then there was Peter.”

She makes a ta-da motion with both hands. 

“You used each other as a shield,” Stiles summarizes. 

“Yes, we did. I had my life, he had his, and when it got too nuts, we’d escape to see each other.”

“You weren’t around for the fire,” he realizes, mostly for himself.

“No. I was busy trying to stop an apocalypse in Japan. By the time I caught wind of what happened, it’d been three months. Peter was in a coma and all traces of foul play long since erased. I knew something was off, but I had no leads. So I got a friend to cast all kinds of wards on Peter’s room and I visited as often as I could. But because I was trying to keep my enemies away from him as well as his, I never let the hospital know I was there. No connections. I didn’t find out about him waking up until he called me.”

She shrugs. “Look, Stiles. Peter is my best friend and yeah, we’re married, but it’s really only on paper. We had sex a few times and then stopped.”

The idea of the two of them, naked and… Stiles hastily thinks of something else. Anything else. “Whoa, TMI, man. Why are you telling me all this?”

The look she gives him is impressive enough to make Derek whimper in envy. “Because you have a crush on Peter. And Pete has a crush on you, and it’s dirtybadwrong, but I’ve been where you are. Worse, actually. Also, you can’t really kill me with your brain and I’m kind of over watching you try.”

Scarlet. Stiles blushes scarlet. 

“You…, I, what…., I never, how, wait. You’ve been where I am? What’s that supposed to mean?”

She sighs again. She does that a lot. “I was sixteen, he was a two-hundred-and-fifty-year-old vampire, it was all Romeo and Juliet.”

“They die at the end.”

“So did we. Not together, but like I said. I did a lot of dying when I was younger. I croaked, I lived, he went to hell and came back. And unlike everyone else around here, I know that Peter is actually capable of positive emotion besides glee. So in a really weird and dysfunctional way this is me giving you my blessing?” Her nose scrunches cutely. “I think? You should totally make him suffer for not telling you about me, though.”

There’s a beat of silence while Stiles tries to work through everything he’s just been told, until Buffy suddenly snorts.

“What?”

“I just realize,” she tells him with a broad grin. “Pete has a type.”

“Yeah?” Leggy blondes, maybe?

“Uh-hu. Pretty, slightly homicidal and with a weird name.”

“That’s not – Stiles is not a weird name!”

“Kid, my name’s Buffy. You don’t have to front with me.”

+

“And that,” Stiles finishes, chin propped on Peter’s chest, their legs hopelessly tangled together on the sofa of his apartment, “is how I worked up the nerve to seduce you with my manly ways.”

Peter manages to bite back his laugh for an entire three seconds. Then he loses his battle and starts chuckling hard enough to almost jostle Stiles to the floor. “In other words,” he manages between fits, “Buffy did all the work for you.”

Stiles whacks him in the shoulder. “Hey! No! She only, like, helped a little. Let me know that there was something worth going for, you know.”

Getting a hold of himself, the older man wraps his arms back around Stiles. “So I owe her, is that what you’re saying?”

“We’re already taking her out to dinner when she gets in next week, and I have plans for a weekend of vegging out on the couch, watching _Sex and the City_ reruns with her.”

“You are such a cliché.”

Stiles pokes him. “Says the middle-aged guy who is cheating on his wife with his younger male lover.”

“You enjoy being my piece on the side,” Peter counters, making Stiles laugh. 

“Oh, yes! Quick, ravage me before your wife comes home!” Stiles cries, trying to strike a pose, losing his balance and falling flat on his face on the carpet. 

“She can have you,” the werewolf mutters, even as he pulls Stiles back up, checking the breakable human for scrapes. 

“Liar,” Stiles argues, playing up a banged elbow.

“Filthy liar,” Peter agrees and goes along with the act, kissing Stiles’ elbow better

And then other parts, too, but that’s a whole ‘nother story.

+

**Author's Note:**

> Come tumble with me [here](http://www.wordsformurder.tumblr.com/).


End file.
